


Fields of White

by singingwithoutwords



Series: A Life in Garden Metaphors [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Feels, Flowers, Forgiveness, Guilt, Healing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Overprotective Pepper, Overprotective Rhodey, Rebuilding Trust, Symbolism, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingwithoutwords/pseuds/singingwithoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most difficult person in the world - any world - to forgive is yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beech for What is Past

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I was going to update some of my other stuff before I started this one. orz

Clint forced himself to watch the news.

He knew the others were avoiding it, denying the media buzz, and he didn't blame them, but he had to know. He didn't enjoy it, and it was as much to punish himself as to keep up with what was being said, and he knew it. Every night after dinner he was escorted back to his room where he sat in front of the TV Tony bought him before it all went to hell and turned on the news.

The sickening part was no one had actually cared at first. Tony Stark not leaving his tower for more than a month unless he was in his armor? Big deal. The Avengers suddenly never being seen anywhere near Tony when he used to drag at least one of them everywhere with him? Boring. Tony Stark refusing to drink alcohol at a gallery opening? Stop the fucking presses, this is of world-shaking importance.

It was only after people figured out Tony had sworn off booze that they began to notice the way more important shit they'd ignored before, and now the carnage was at its peak, and Clint forced himself to watch it happen.

His couch was SHIELD-issue, which meant uncomfortable, which was fine by him as he sat back, closed his eyes, and listened to Sean Hannity predict 'Sober Stark' would vanish into a bottle within the next month or so, and then Iron Man would be off the Avengers. Clint knew better, and hearing some smug glorified talk show host say it for all the world to hear like it was fact made his blood boil.

They devoted almost the entire hour to predicting Tony's downfall, and Clint forced himself to listen to every word.

* * *

Natasha took meals in her room.

The cast was an excuse, and a feeble one at that- she simply could not trust herself anymore. She left her room for only two reasons these days: when Fury ordered her to, and for the mandatory sexual harassment and rape awareness classes.

She had brushed the classes aside when they'd been optional, when Phil and Clint had first brought her to SHIELD. She had assumed she knew all there was to know, that there was nothing for her to learn there, and that she could defend herself from unwanted advances without their patronizing advice.

She had never once entertained the thought she might be the predator and not the prey.

Now she sat on her bed, pamphlets and worksheets spread across her lap and the handwoven blanket Tony had given her. She knew each pamphlet by heart and had filled out all of the worksheets at least twice before, but it wasn't enough. She had demanded new sheets to fill out and refused to acknowledge the searching, sympathetic look Agent Jandel had given her. She didn't deserve his sympathy. He was young and attractive, and _he_ might have been her victim instead of Tony, if things had fallen out differently.

She finished one worksheet and set it aside, reaching for the next one. She knew the facts, but she didn't understand them, not well enough, not yet. She couldn't trust herself to see anymore, to read the signs she'd thought were plain as day once.

* * *

Bruce and the Hulk still weren't speaking.

While they had never really communicated in words, there had always been an awareness, a shared subconscious link that fed Bruce what his alter-ego felt, an undertow of emotion and impression that could not be shut off, that hadn't been there since _that_ afternoon. Two months in, and the only thing Bruce could pick up when he reached inward was towering disgust.

Not that he could blame the Hulk. The Hulk had adored Tony from the start, like a puppy latching onto the first person to show it kindness. Spending time with Tony had always come with a bonus of mellowing the Hulk's ever-present rage, to the point where Bruce had actually lost his temper a time or two but not transformed, because the Hulk didn't want to accidentally hurt Tony.

Bruce sat on the floor of his spartan cell and stared up at the ceiling. None of the understated finery Tony had given him was here- just a cot and a bookshelf. He didn't deserve that generosity, couldn't bring himself to take advantage of it. He sat in the dark, listening to the emptiness where the Hulk should be, carefully playing out every interaction in his mind. He'd made a mistake, one he could never be forgiven for, and he was determined not to repeat it.

* * *

Thor sat on his bed and stared across his room at Mjolnir.

In the time since being removed from Anthony's tower, he had not touched her. He had born her here and set her down, and he did not want to sully her brilliance by laying his hands on her. He knew she would come, if he called her, and that knowledge only worsened his guilt.

He was not new to this realm, with no knowledge of its people. He knew how easily they could be harmed. He had... forgotten. That Anthony was Midgardian, that he was not as strong outside his mechanical suit as he was in it. He had considered the man in terms of Asgard, where strength of arm was paramount, where the weak ceded to the strong at all times and the strong ceded to no one. Such was the order on Asgard, and he had seen no cause to think it might not be so here.

Being mistaken was not a feeling Thor was unfamiliar with. He had yet to come to enjoy it.

Confined to his cramped room for much of each day, Thor contemplated Mjolnir and how she could stand his touch.

* * *

Steve watched the bag tear in half and fall.

Canvas and sand spilled across the gym floor, adding themselves to the pile, reminding him that not a single punching bag Tony had made for him had split like that. The microwave, the expensive electronics, the furniture and dishes and even once or twice the walls, Steve had managed to break without even trying, but not the punching bags. Tony had designed those specifically for him, and they had never broken.

He stared down at the mound of sand for a long moment, hands still raised. It wasn't enough. He was sweating like a racehorse, panting, whole body alive and tingling with the beginnings of exhaustion, but it wasn't enough. Not enough for him to sleep. Even as tired as he was, if he went to bed now, it would just be a repeat of last night, memories of his sins and his last glimpse of Tony like a child in Rhodes' arms, too scared to look at him, and another sleepless night.

He turned, grabbing the next bag in line, and hung it. Once he broke a few more bags, once exhaustion made his vision swim and his steps unsteady, once his knuckles bruised and cracked and bled, _then_ Steve could go back to his room. Then, maybe, if he was lucky, he'd sleep.

He brought his arms up again and started punching again. Maybe tonight, he would sleep.

* * *

Tony was... coping.

Pepper had gone back to LA, giving him the space he needed. It hurt to have to have to ask it of her, but she was beautiful and perfect and amazing and told him she was only a phone call away before she climbed back on the jet.

She left Happy behind, though. Happy was no Rhodey, but he was another person who was safe, who'd seen him low and stayed with him until he dragged himself back up, and now Happy drove him everywhere again, just like Before.

It was funny how his life could be chopped up into vague, capitalized periods: Before, After, That Night, Those Three Months. Simple terms with loaded meanings and usually horrible memories. But he was coping.

He shoved his foot against the table, sending his chair rolling backwards past Rhodey. Rhodey was still on leave and always nearby. Tony didn't mind. He couldn't be 100% sure of Happy, but there was no law of the universe more certain than that Rhodey was safe. And safety was good. He could use a little safety.

“Hey, honey bear,” Tony said, nudging Rhodey's chair with his foot.

“Yeah?” Rhodey responded without looking up from the game of checkers he was playing with You, but Tony knew where his attention was.

“I was thinking. What we talked about. Yesterday. About the team. I hashed it out with Pepper and Jarvis, and... I think I'm ready.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Rhodey asked, turning away from the board, catching Tony's gaze.

Tony nodded. He didn't look away or lower his eyes. He wasn't calm, his heart was hammering against the reactor casing, but he could meet Rhodey's eyes, and that was enough, right?

“Okay. Want me to do it now?”

When they'd first discussed this idea last month, Rhodey had insisted it be set up so Tony couldn't put it in motion. He knew Tony, and Tony knew himself, and they both knew that if it was up to him he'd have already implemented the plan, long before he was ready. Which might have been bad.

Tony took a deep breath, held it for a heartbeat, and nodded. Rhodey sighed, leaning forward and pulling Tony close so their foreheads touched. Intimate. Safe.

“Jarvis, go ahead and launch Operation: Field of White.”

 


	2. Ash for What You've Sacrificed

It came as absolutely no fucking surprise that Tony had a nightmare that night.

Nightmares were not a new thing; Before, they'd been typical teenage bullshit, naked in a lecture hall or some movie monster in endless hallways. Then Afghanistan happened, and every dream he remembered was cold caves and burning sun and Yinsen's blood on the first suit. Then Stane happened and he spent his nights with a gaping hole in his chest, never quite making it in time, helplessly watching the woman he'd been too stupid to admit he loved die. It was absurd to think he'd miss those dreams, except they were replaced by a yawning void in the sky and a final good-bye he'd never get to say because Pepper wasn't answering her phone.

Then That Night happened.

He longed for damp caves and fireballs in the soundless vacuum of space, because now he woke up sobbing and begging from memories that didn't have to be exaggerated, because there was no way to make the betrayal any worse.

So no, it was no surprise to anyone when Tony bolted upright in bed choking on a scream, lost and terrified for one endless godawful second.

Rhodey was there, though, hands on his shoulders, pulling him close. He insisted Tony at least try to sleep every night, but he didn't leave him alone. Rhodey would never abandon him like that.

“Shh, Tones, it's okay,” Rhodey whispered as the lights inched upward, lighting the room by manageable degrees. “I've got you, buddy. You're safe.”

Tony leaned against him, trying to force his heart to slow the hell down. He was safe. Nobody in here with him but Rhodey and Jarvis. No one was going to turn on him here. All he had to do was repeat that to himself enough times, and it would eventually seep through the panic.

It took less time than it would have a month ago for him to relax. He slid out of Rhodey's hold and back onto the pillows, sighing. “That sucked.”

“It's not too late to call it off,” Rhodey said quietly after a minute.

Tony shook his head. “If I postpone, this whole bullshit routine will just repeat next time I give the go-ahead,” he said. “Why go through it twice?”

Rhodey flopped back against his own pillow. Tony could sleep without having to be pressed against him, but they still took up less than half the bed between them. Still, progress was progress, right? “Long as you're sure, buddy.”

“I am.”

“Think you can get back to sleep?”

“Not if the fate of the world depended on it.”

“Okay, then.” Rhodey hauled himself back up with a groan. “Let's go.”

“At least we replaced the couch in the workshop?” Tony offered, grinning as he climbed off the bed and grabbed his jeans off the floor.

Aside from reconfiguring pretty much every security measure on the tower, Tony had also sunk a hefty sum into upgrading the workshop for those nights when sleep just wasn't happening. Rhodey wasn't going to let him go down there alone, but he was a normal person with normal sleep needs, and Tony wanted him to be comfortable when he inevitably crashed sometime around sunrise.

“You're lucky I love your ass,” Rhodey groused.

“Only my ass?” Tony retorted with laugh. Rhodey wouldn't take it the wrong way. Rhodey understood.

The banter only got more spirited as they boarded the elevator and Jarvis took them down to the workshop, and Tony resolved not to think about the team or Operation: Field of White until noon at the very earliest.

* * *

The first crisis to pop up after their incarceration was pretty low-key, as these things went. There was a rampaging monster that was really just a scared shitless animal that had gotten loose, a mutated bird the size of a biplane trying to get away from the city noise.

In the end only Clint and Steve were actually called out. Steve's shield was the perfect lure, because even massive mutant birds liked shiny things, apparently, and Clint and a few agents had managed to net the thing and secure it for transport. It was pretty docile once they got a makeshift hood on it, and property damage was actually barely into five digits.

So again, pretty low-key.

The trip back to base was silent. Clint would normally have spent the entire ride bitching about anything and everything he could think of, but he couldn't even bring himself to fake it, because he'd be bitching alone.

It hadn't really sunk in, before. Sitting in his room watching the news, being escorted everywhere by armed guards, the memories burned into his mind where no amount of time or guilt would ever erase them, it hadn't hit him. He'd been drifting in a numb limbo when it came to the idea, the knowledge of what he'd done and what it meant, but it didn't actually _hit_ him until he'd glanced up to draw Tony into their habitual post-mission bitchfest and he wasn't there.

He'd probably never be there again.

Sure, if the mission called for it, Iron Man would show up. Iron Man would fight beside them if he had to, to protect the city and deal with the threat _du jour_. But Tony, the brilliant, erratic, batshit insane, frankly hilarious guy Clint had just been getting to know? Clint would probably never see him again. Even if they met in person, it wouldn't be Tony, it would be Tony Fucking Stark, the public image that was more armor than his actual armor, because they didn't deserve to see anything more. They didn't deserve to see the human being underneath.

So he made the ride in silence, turned over his bow in silence, and went back to his room in silence.

He didn't have a key to his own room anymore- one of the guards unlocked and opened the door for him. Once he stepped inside, the same guard closed the door and locked it, and he wouldn't unlock it again until lunch.

Clint shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the couch, moving woodenly past it to the bed and sitting heavily, staring hard at the bland beige carpet and trying to process what he somehow hadn't realized until now. He'd been naively clinging to the hope that someday, eventually, they'd work this out. That they'd make it up to Tony, somehow become worthy of his trust and friendship again. Time to let that dream go.

He didn't notice the flowers until he let himself fall backwards and landed right on top of them. “The hell?”

The (slightly squashed) bouquet was obviously professionally done. There were a dozen flowers wrapped in pale yellow paper and tied with a gold ribbon. They looked like daffodils, but not the usual yellow- these ones were glossy white, with bright yellow centers ringed thinly in red, and Clint couldn't help but think of the Iron Man armor against snow.

He was almost afraid to pick them up. They might be poisoned, revenge from someone who knew what he'd done. Why else would someone be leaving him flowers? But really, if that were the case, who was he to deny justice? So he picked the bouquet up, anyway, along with the white card under it.

There was writing on the card in deep purple, a hand he didn't recognize:  _Obsessing over the past is useless,_ it read,  _but sometimes we just can't help ourselves._

There was no signature, not even a logo for whatever florist had put this together, which did not clear anything up for him. He set the bouquet down carefully, not sure what to do next, then finally got up and went hunting for something to use as a vase.

* * *

Steve wasn't allowed to keep his shield with him anymore. That, more than anything, was what had really driven home just how horribly wrong everything had gone. His shield had always been, at least to him, a symbol of protection. Of the trust placed in him and the position he held as a defender of his country and his planet. To have that taken from him felt like being told he wasn't worthy of it. He wasn't fit to protect anyone anymore. And he couldn't find it in him to disagree.

He and Clint didn't say good-bye when they parted ways outside the armory. The guards wouldn't have stopped them, he was sure, but the solid bridges they'd built between them as a team were shaky now, and Steve was afraid to push too hard and drive Clint away. Clint would talk to him when he was ready. If he hadn't heard him say a word outside of classes (and now missions) in the past two months, that was Clint's choice to make and not Steve's to second-guess.

Once Clint disappeared down the corridor to his room, Steve let himself be directed toward his own room. Neither of his guards was large or physically very imposing, but they'd explained in great detail the various means by which they could take him down if he tried to run. He had no intention of giving them any trouble, but it was a comfort to know they could deal with him if he did.

His room was small and cluttered. He'd wanted to refuse the things Tony had sent over, but hadn't been able to make himself, so his room was full of carefully sorted and stored art supplies in every available nook and cranny. He'd spent days organizing everything, and the clutter was what Tony would have called organized chaos: he knew where everything was, but he doubted anyone else would be able to find anything in here.

Because he was so careful with his supplies and so mindful of where each one was, he noticed the plant immediately, set on the corner of his desk behind a re-purposed coffee can full of paintbrushes. The pot itself was unpainted clay; the plant was large green leaves and tiny white flowers that faded to a pale purple in their centers. There was also a crisp white card leaning against the pot; he picked it up and read the fancy vibrant blue message hand-written across it.

_Knowledge often sadly comes at the expense of innocence._

Steve bit his lip, not sure what to make of the whole set-up, and carefully set the card back where he found it.

He probably wouldn't be allowed to leave his room until lunch, so he found one of the heavy watercolor sketchbooks, flicked on the lamp on his desk, and grabbed the nearest pencil. He hadn't actually drawn since that afternoon- maybe now was the perfect time to start again.

* * *

There was a knock on the door- not a request, but a warning, so Natasha ignored it. Five measured seconds later, the lock turned and the door opened.

“Lunch,” the agent at the door said.

Natasha wordlessly reached for her crutches. She couldn't trust herself to eat with the others, but she had enough pride left that she refused to eat on her bed like a child. She stood, mindful of her leg, and moved the short distance to her desk, where her meal was being set out. It wasn't prison fare by any means, but it might as well have been for all Natasha would taste it. Eating was a necessary chore, a means to keep her body functioning and nothing more. After the meals – forced at first, then gradually more natural – shared nightly with her teammates, after losing the scent of every stage of the process, the background noise of Clint complaining that just one taste couldn't hurt, the exotic dishes drawn from Bruce's winding path around the globe, eating  _had_ to be as simple a function as she could make it. She couldn't bear to let it be anything more.

She eased into the chair without help. The agents forced to attend to her had learned quickly that attempts to help, to be kind, were met with sharp words and hostility, pushing their sympathy away, barring herself from it. It was undeserved, wasted on her and better spent on others. This one only stood back, posture relaxed and unafraid.

Or did she only see that because it was what she wanted to see?

Natasha refocused on her meal to avoid the mental spiral of second-guessing and mistrusting herself.

The food was the sort of simple, solid fare being served in the mess hall- a thin ham and cheese sandwich, a small basket of salted fries, and a can of soda.

What surprised her was the branch laid across the top of the tray, carefully trimmed bright green leaves and small white flowers with pinprick yellow centers. She looked up at the attending agent, not even sure how to ask. How to interact. Even that was beyond her now.

The agent saved her the trouble, answering without having to be asked. “They aren't from me,” she said. “Card's under the flowers.”

Natasha turned back to her tray, lifting the branch carefully. It trailed across a card as white as the flowers and crisp black letters so clearly written she didn't even have to pick the card up to read it.

_Elegance is found often in nature, and only rarely among mankind._

“I don't understand,” she whispered, half to herself and half to anyone who could explain what this was, what it meant. Even a stranger would do, just so she could know what to do now.

The agent – how did she not know the woman's name, she should know something as basic as that – stepped up to the desk and reached over, gently taking the branch. Natasha let her, curling her hands in her lap in an automatic reaction to how her fingers shook. Hide the weakness. Don't let anyone see.

“Eat,” the agent said. “I'll put this in some water for you.”

Natasha nodded, just glad that  _someone_ could tell her exactly what was needed. She was so grateful that she obeyed, even when it meant presenting her open back to the woman. She could eat. Even she was capable of that. She picked up her sandwich to the sound of running water behind her, not taking her eyes off that card.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually made myself feel very strong feels for Natasha with this chapter. >.>
> 
> Clint's flowers are [Pheasant's Eye Daffodils](http://i.imgur.com/PU8N9DN.png), which stand for sorrowful remembrance.  
> Steve's flowers are [White Violets](http://i.imgur.com/azj07Wb.jpg), which stand for innocence.  
> Natasha's flowers are [White Acacia](http://i.imgur.com/CH18Naz.jpg), which stand for - you guessed it! - elegance.


	3. Juniper for the Journey

Bruce had a lab. It was nothing like the massive one Tony had built for him, just the best SHIELD could offer. He was allowed to use it for two two-hour intervals each day, supervised, with all experiments cleared with whichever SHIELD science division was most suited to judge it.

Only one guard actually followed him into the lab. The other stayed in the hall, stationed outside the large bulletproof windows with his hands folded behind him, almost at parade rest. The guard that did accompany him sat in a chair by the door. Neither had guns; instead they carried a prototype sedative he had developed that should at least make the Hulk tractable, if it didn't manage to knock him out entirely. Theoretically, anyway.

Not that it was likely to be needed. Bruce wasn't entirely sure if the Hulk would emerge for anything short of imminent death. Maybe not even then.

The lab was exactly as he'd left it that morning, with one exception: on table where he'd been working calculations to pass the time - everything he did these days was to pass the time - there was a single white dahlia, nearly a foot in diameter, each small triangular petal unblemished white.

Bruce stared at the flower for what felt like hours before glancing toward the door, at the guard. Fury had told them no one at SHIELD besides the agents in charge of their classes was aware of exactly what they'd done, but one of the meanings of white dahlias was betrayal. A bit too apt for someone not informed.

The guard had to see the flower, but didn't comment, just watched him with unnerving calm.

Bruce stepped up to the table, hesitating. Nothing about the flower looked or smelled off, but then it didn't need to. This didn't have to be a trap at all, just a pointed reminder of his crime.

He lifted it carefully with both hands, setting it aside. It had been obscuring a white card with emerald-green words on it: _Carry yourself with the dignity you owe to others_.

Dignity. Another meaning of white dahlias, one he'd never thought applied to him. One that made no sense at all. One that hurt, in a unique, self-loathing way.

“Dr. Banner?” the guard at the door asked quietly.

Bruce glanced up, back down. His heart was hammering in his chest, but the Hulk wasn't stirring. It didn't take a genius to figure out who had probably sent this, and if the card had mentioned betrayal, that would have fit. That would have been logical. This... this, he didn't deserve. He had no right to this gesture. To dignity. To anything.

He picked up the flower again, holding it carefully in both hands.

“I think,” he said softly, not sure anymore what exactly he was feeling, “I'd like to go back to my cell. Please.”

* * *

Agent Jandel did not look like an imposing man. He was small and womanishly slight, clean-shaven, with a boyish face and delicate hands. Had he not seen with his own eyes what the man was capable of, Thor would have thought SHIELD mad for welcoming him into their ranks.

As it was, Thor found the small man very imposing, indeed, as they faced each other in the center of the sparring ring.

The others were not present. This lesson, they did not need. Thor alone required special instruction to know the strength and resilience of his human allies, to prevent more damage such as he had done to Anthony in his lust.

“I cannot,” Thor said quietly, lowering his gaze.

“You can and you will,” Jandel disagreed. “Your release is conditional on completing whatever exercises I deem appropriate, and all of you need to complete the course together. If you _don't_ do it, you'll be holding back the others. ”

Thor winced. He knew the toll captivity was taking on his teammates, and he didn't wish to impede their release. However... “You will be hurt.”

“Don't insult me, Prince Thor,” Jandel retorted. “One, I can take a little pain. Two, you'll have to actually pin me first. Now attack me.”

Thor hesitated. Even without Mjolnir in his grasp, he could do a great deal of damage. He would not make that mistake again.

Jandel sighed and rushed him. Thor dodged automatically, but stopped himself from returning the attack. Jandel simply stuck out at him again, and again, pushing Thor further from the center of the ring.

“Not using your strength at all is worse than using it without control,” Jandel warned him, landing a kick to his chest that sent Thor staggering several steps backward. “You need to master your abilities, not fear them. Hit me back without killing me- that's all you need to do.”

“I'll hurt you,” Thor protested again, dodging a blow to his head.

“You need to learn control,” Jandel answered flatly, “and you won't learn it like this. Do you want a repeat of what happened to Mr. Stark?”

“Stop,” Thor said – begged – stepping back, remembering livid bruises and tears.

“Do you want to wind up hurting someone _else_ you care about because you can't seem to grasp your own strength? ” the man pressed.

“No!”

“Then you'd damned well _better_ learn to grasp your own strength, or that's exactly what's going to happen. Now fight. Back.”

Thor reluctantly nodded, and if his attacks were halfhearted at best, Jandel chose not to comment.

He returned to his room once Jandel judged him finished for the day, tired in mind if not in body. His keepers locked him in, and he went immediately to his bed. Sleep seemed a safe enough pastime, away from the thoughts he would rather not confront.

Sleep was forced to wait, however, for piled on his pillow was a mound of star-like flowers, white as freshly fallen snow. They spilled down across the covers and the pillowcase, and nestled in their midst was an equally white card penned in gold. Thor lifted the card carefully, puzzled.

“ _It takes more than being born to a king to make a prince,_ ” he read aloud, which only furthered his puzzlement. Was this another Midgardian custom of which he was unaware?

He set the card aside and retrieved a wooden bowl that had until lunch been filled with fruit and began to fill it instead with flowers, mindful of each one, not wanting any of their number to be crushed in his grasp.

He didn't know what they meant, but he would do his best to learn.

* * *

Dinner was the usual silent affair, only Steve, Clint, Bruce, and Thor. None of them spoke, focused on eating and getting back to... whatever the others did during downtime. Steve didn't know. He couldn't bring himself to ask.

He finished last, mainly because he ate the most, even more than Thor. Clint bolted his food and left as soon as it was done, and Bruce didn't take much longer. Thor watched them go, and eventually got up himself without finishing all of his portion, leaving Steve alone.

He was still technically the leader of the Avengers, fragmented as they were. He could order them to stay. Talk to them, attempt to draw them back into a cohesive whole, but he couldn't bring himself to. They could probably never be whole again, not as a team, maybe not even as people.

Steve finished his own meal and stood. He wouldn't be going back to his room; he was already dressed for a workout, and his handlers knew he would want to head straight to the gym. They led him there without comment, taking up their posts at either door.

There was already a line of punching bags waiting, set out in anticipation, and his duffel was on its usual bench. Steve was so intent on getting to the workout, gaining that state of meditative exhaustion that was the closest he could manage to peace these days, that he barely saw the flowers, only aware enough of them to avoid knocking them off the bench or sitting on them. They didn't actually register with him until the first bag broke and he turned to grab the second one.

There were three of them, fist-sized with dozens of thin white petals, shaped almost like pom-poms, laid in a neat row next to his duffel. Just like the pot he'd found in his room, there was a white card with blue script, resting on the flower stems.

_You're honest in your mistakes, at least,_ this one said.

Steve didn't know how long he stood there, just staring at the card. Long enough for the agent at the nearer door to start shifting uncomfortably, snapping him out of it.

He turned his back on the flowers, hung the next bag, and settled back into punching. Wooden, blank, shut down inside. Honest in his mistakes. Mistakes he shouldn't have made, Mistakes that had hurt someone close to him, but at least he'd manned up to them. At least he was honest.

Hours later, knuckles scabbed over and sand spilled across the gym floor, Steve carefully collected all three flowers and took them back to his room, making sure to put them in water before he let himself fall into bed.

* * *

“Tones?”

Tony grunted to show he'd heard, not extracting himself from the halfway dismantled engine that was tonight's distraction.

“It's midnight, Tony,” Rhodey said, and bless him for not sounding like he was talking to a wounded animal. Tony had gotten enough of that when he'd called Pepper earlier. “Bedtime.”

“Five more minutes,” Tony said, pulling himself out long enough to snatch a smaller screwdriver before diving back into the work.

Rhodey sat on the couch, far enough away that Tony didn't feel crowded, but close enough for conversation. “You called Pepper earlier.”

Tony grunted again. It wasn't a question, and even if it had been Rhodey had been there to be chased out of the lab when he did, so...

“Didn't go well?”

Tony made a soft noise that basically meant “no it fucking didn't, but I don't do feelings so we aren't going to talk about it”.

“We can talk about the weather instead,” Rhodey said, because he was familiar enough with Tony's noises to actually get what that one meant.

“You hate me,” Tony said with a groan, resting his forehead on the engine casing. “No, seriously, you hate me. You've hated me all along and now you're letting me know because I'm no use to you anymore.”

Rhodey actually laughed. Pepper, bless her beautiful soul, would have been appalled. It was nice to have someone to joke about the bad shit with him. “Yes, Tony. I no longer need a best friend. I'm also going to marry Jarvis and steal your empire out from under you.”

“You are most certainly _not_ ,” Jarvis protested. For a second Tony thought his sarcasm subroutines were failing, which was a horrible thought, but then- “Clearly I am saving myself for Butterfingers.”

Tony laughed until his sides hurt. Harder than he'd laughed at anything since That Night. It was a good release, and he felt better once he was breathless and wiping tears from his eyes.

“You'll just have to marry Dummy,” Tony said once he had the oxygen for it. “Marry Dummy, that's the only way to inherit my fortune.”

Rhodey made a pained noise that set Tony off again, gasping for breath, just laughing and not paying attention to everything wrong while his ribs and stomach protested. Just... happy.

“C'mon, princess,” Rhodey said once he'd calmed down again, standing and offering him a hand. “Your five minutes are up.”

“But _Moooom!_ ” Tony whined, taking the hand and hauling himself to his feet. “J, lock down the lab for me?”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said. “Good night.”

“Night,” Tony said, letting Rhodey pull him to the door and up the stairs to his bedroom.

He brushed his own teeth and got himself ready for bed, flopping down on the sheets. Rhodey joined him shortly with a Starkpad and a book, and handed the book to Tony. They both settled down for the night with their reading material, and Tony managed to get through the first three chapters of some sort of insane fantasy epic before he dozed off to the quiet sound of Rhodey breathing.

He actually managed to sleep through the night, and he didn't even dream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's flower is a [white dahlia](http://i.imgur.com/OuLdg9t.jpg), which stands for dignity.  
> Thor's flowers are [white lilac](http://i.imgur.com/KhEmmb9.jpg), which stands for majesty.  
> Steve's flowers are [white chrysanthemum](http://i.imgur.com/9jbyjYS.jpg), which stand for truth.


	4. Olive to Mend the Damage

There were technically three agents who taught the team's classes, but only Agent Jandel came to every session. The other two acted more like assistants, showing up when they were needed and vanishing when they weren't, and Steve didn't even know their names. Agent Jandel was a constant, neither judgmental nor really sympathetic, which was... comforting. Much as they deserved the judgment, it still stung, and to accept any sympathy considering what they'd done felt wrong. Jandel stood completely outside that spectrum, neutral and steady, and that made him perfect for these lessons.

They met in one of the smaller conference rooms, the same one every time. The table was round, and could probably seat ten, provided they didn't mind being a bit squished, which made it downright roomy for just the five of them.

Clint always claimed the seat that afforded the best view of both the door and the windows, keeping watch and constantly checking both throughout the class. Bruce habitually took the seat to Clint's left, keeping his eyes firmly on the table at all times.

Steve would have expected Natasha to take the seat to Clint's right; the two obviously had a strong relationship the exact nature of which wasn't Steve's business, and at any other time the two tended to glue themselves to each other. Instead, Natasha chose to sit next to Bruce, placing her back squarely to the window and putting her closest to Jandel. That was another relationship Steve would probably never understand, but if it helped steady Natasha in any way, he was grateful for it.

Steve himself generally took the seat to Clint's right, across from Natasha, leaving the seat nearest the door for Thor. It made sense, strategically: Clint as lookout, Thor and Steve to handle any threat that came through the door, Bruce in a position to Hulk out if he had to with minimal risk to the others, Natasha where Jandel could easily get to her and get her out while the rest of them were occupied. Steve had to wonder if any of them had done it consciously, or if they'd fallen back on training without even knowing.

Steve bit his lip, absently putting pencil to the worksheet in front of him while he listened to Jandel talking from the front of the room. He began to sketch in the margins, just the barest lines, forming themselves into Natasha. Not drawn and haggard, hair unstyled, dark circles under her eyes and doubt constantly in her every line- Natasha as he used to know her, bright and hard and strong, made of deadly grace and authority. A Natasha he hadn't seen for months, hiding or maybe gone forever.

No, not gone. He'd already lost Tony, he couldn't lose the others, too. He wouldn't survive that. It would kill him to be completely alone again, and it hurt too much even to think. Hidden. She was just hidden under the wreck their mistake had made of her. In time, hopefully, she'd find herself again.

He surrounded the sketch with rough flowers, the potted purple-white ones and the fluffy pom-pom ones, climbing the side of the page and spilling across the bottom. Maybe Jandel would let him have another copy, and he could take this one back to his room to color it in properly...

“Steve?”

Steve looked up to find Jandel standing next to his chair, head cocked to the side. He must have gotten more caught up in drawing than he'd meant to.

“You seem distracted today,” Jandel said, not unkindly. “Would you like to discuss what's on your mind?”

Steve looked down, chancing a look at his teammates. Natasha and Bruce were pretending to be fascinated by their own worksheets, but Thor was looking at him, and Clint was staring down at his paper and the half-finished drawing. He hesitated, wanting to speak up but almost... afraid to.

“Would you like me to leave the room?” Jandel asked after a long moment of patient silence.

“You don't have to...” Steve said, not letting himself show how the thought lessened the tension.

“Do you _want_ me to?” Jandel countered. “It's perfectly fine if you do, Steve- I'm not a member of your team, and you're free to ask for privacy if you feel you need it.”

“Then, yes, please.”

“Alright,” Jandel said. “I'll be right outside if you need me. And Steve?”

“Yes?”

Jandel smiled, patting Steve's shoulder. “It's good to see you drawing again. Let the guard know when you're done.”

Steve nodded, waiting until Jandel left and the door was locked again before turning back to the team. Now Bruce was watching him, too, though Natasha still hadn't lifted her head.

“Has... has anyone else been receiving flowers?” he asked, afraid it was a foolish question, that they were going to think he was going crazy or something.

He couldn't be sure what the initial reactions of the others were, because the way Natasha actually _jumped_ in her seat, scattering her precious worksheets across the table and floor, and pinned Steve with a frankly terrifyingly intense stare was just a bit too distracting.

“I'll... take that as a yes?” he hazarded, barely daring to breathe until she deliberately relaxed back into her chair and nodded.

“Did yours come with a card, too?” Clint asked.

“Mine did,” Bruce spoke up quietly.

“As did mine,” Thor said.

“Any idea where they're coming from?” Steve asked. What with the pot turning up in his room, that was the part that concerned him the most.

“I have a suspicion,” Bruce said. “One that makes no sense, but at the same time makes entirely too much sense.” He paused for a moment, as if collecting himself. “I think they're coming from Tony.”

“Why would Tony be sending us flowers?” Clint asked. “Ones that aren't poison, at any rate?”

“I don't know,” Bruce said, shrugging. “Like I said, it doesn't make sense. Then again, if Tony were to try and reach out to us, this is exactly the kind of awkward roundabout way he'd do it.”

Clint opened his mouth, paused, then nodded. “Okay, yeah, it is. Still.”

“Either way,” Steve said. “It's good to know I'm not the only one getting them. No one's been hurt by them, right?” Negatives all around. “Okay. If it's okay with you, can we report to the team if anyone gets any more?”

The answers were all in the affirmative that time. Clint went to the door to alert the guards so Jandel could be let back in, and Steve sat back, feeling a part of himself he hadn't known was frozen start to thaw. His team was still fractured, might still fall apart any moment, but it was still there and still his, and that was all that mattered.

 

* * *

 

Jandel wrapped up the class the same way he always did, with subtle affirmation, acknowledgment of their progress and how far they still had to go, and a few worksheets to take back to their rooms. Each of the team was collected by their personal guards to be escorted out, until only Natasha was left, standing with unnatural stillness next to the table. She stared at him, not hiding the wariness in her eyes as well as she'd once been able to.

“There aren't enough,” she said.

A month ago, he might have needed clarification; now he just sighed.

“Doing the same sheets a dozen more times isn't going to help you learn any better,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“It will,” she said, with the desperate confidence of someone who _needed_ it to be true, no matter how well they both knew it wasn't.

“It won't.” It was risky to push her, but it was also risky _not_ to push her. She was at a point where being challenged might be exactly what she needed. “You already know the material by rote- going over it again isn't going to suddenly make you learn it by heart.”

She didn't reply, but she wilted enough that it was physically evident.

“Let's get you back to your room,” Jandel said, laying a hand on her arm.

“You don't need to take me,” she said, letting her eyes drop to the floor.

“I know- I want to.” He meant it sincerely, too; he considered Natasha a friend, and it hurt him on more than a professional level to see her hurting like this.

Years ago, Jandel had been recruited to SHIELD during that nervous period when the Black Widow was no longer an enemy, not yet an agent, and not quite an asset. She'd been the only person even close to his size – even now that he was done growing, she still had a few centimeters on him – and had taken it upon herself to teach him to fight. It had gone a long way toward gaining her goodwill in the agency, and they'd stayed close, so close Fury had actually debated not letting Jandel handle the Avengers after everything fell apart on them.

As if he had any other agent who could.

Natasha nodded once, letting Jandel collect her things and carry them out of the conference room and down the labyrinth of corridors to her room. He'd visited her there a few times since her incarceration, and it was still plain, almost completely without decoration. There was a slim glass vase with a branch of white flowers on one corner of the otherwise empty desk, and a square stained-wood planter in the corner full of bright orange-red flowers with sunny yellow edging on the petals. From the smell of fresh earth, it had probably been install during the morning's class.

The planter was obviously new to Natasha, who approached it the same way an ordinance expert might approach a high-yield bomb.

Jandel turned and set her things on the desk, allowing her the illusion of privacy while she bent to grab the card taped to the side of the planter. He hadn't been entirely sure of this plan when he'd been told about it, but it was difficult to say no to Tony Stark at the best of times, and even if it didn't ultimately _help_ , there was only a very slim chance it would _hurt_.

After a minute or two, he looked up to find Natasha staring at the card with tears on her cheeks, which told him clearly which message it was. This one probably _did_ hurt, in much the same way physical therapy for her healing leg hurt- pain that came from growing and strengthening a part of her that had been badly damaged and was starting to mend. He placed a hand on her lower back – it was a measure of how much she trusted him that she didn't even flinch – and guided her to the bed, sitting her down on the edge and leaning her crutches against the wall. The last thing she needed was even more words, so he left in silence to go delay her lunch by half an hour. She needed time to digest this message, this truth she needed to hear.

_You're as worthwhile a human being as any other._

 

* * *

 

Setbacks happened. They were a thing. Tony was used to the idea of setbacks, and usually he handled them well. Usually he could see them coming. He could roll out of bed, look at his reflection in the mirror, and tell today was going to be shitty. He could look at his schedule and know that it was going to take everything he had to survive until lunch.

Sometimes he'd be having one of his best days yet since That Night, and get blindsided by an aggressive redheaded setback armed with cleavage and a recorder.

She was lying in wait with at least a dozen other tabloid sharks at the back door, all of them hoping for a soundbite or a snapshot. There was nothing unusual about it, the press always hounded him, he was having a good day, right up until his line of sight was full of red curls and breasts and his mind was full of Natasha- aggressive, slightly sadistic, natural redhead, sharp nails and sharper words and _let him up, Steve. I want to hear him_.

He would have bolted if not for the warm familiar hand on his shoulder. Happy. Happy was with him. Happy wouldn't let anything happen to him. He could trust Happy. Right? Couldn't he?

The hand on his shoulder moved, slid to his upper back, nudged him forward. Tony obeyed on autopilot, all of his attention caught up in not panicking in front of the cameras, and trying to convince himself that he was safe with Happy, and what was wrong with him that he needed convincing of that? Happy was... Happy was _Happy_ . How fucked up did a person have to be to be afraid of _Happy_?

He didn't realize they'd reached the car until he was actually in it, curled up in the back seat, and it was moving. He was alone, it was daytime, he wasn't drunk, he was just such a _drama queen_ , Bruce had been right, and God, he was going to freak out, he was going to have a breakdown right here in the backseat all by himself for no goddamn reason, he was-

“Tony?”

The panic didn't vanish, but it subsided just a bit, ebbing enough for Tony to lift his head. “Rhodey?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Rhodey said. His voice was coming from the speakers. This car must be one of the ones connected to Jarvis, hooked into his systems, which included phones. He'd forgotten about it. “Happy called me.”

“You're supposed to be catching up on sleep,” Tony said, feeling some of the tension in his back and shoulders ease.

“I'm plenty rested,” Rhodey said, yawning. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Tony whined softly and shook his head, even though Rhodey couldn't see him.

“Okay. Don't push it,” Rhodey said, the steadiness of his voice helping Tony gain back a little control, just like it always did. “Come home.”

“I have a meeting,” Tony protested, even though the thought of actually _going_ to that meeting made his stomach churn painfully.

“You can skip it,” Rhodey said. “I'll explain it to Pepper. Come home. That's an order, Princess.”

Tony smiled, in spite of the way his hands were still shaking. “Got it, Cupcake,” he said, letting himself uncurl and collapse bonelessly against the seat and closing his eyes. “Happy?”

“Already on our way,” Happy assured him. Once they were back at the Tower and the shakes were gone, he'd have to apologize. Happy was a good guy, he should never be feared.

“Breathe, Tony,” Rhodey said, and Tony obeyed.

He had Rhodey. He had Happy. He had Jarvis.  He was safe.

Setbacks happened. He'd be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's flower this chapter is [red primrose](http://i.imgur.com/jDw6SXR.jpg), which stands for merit.
> 
> And I can't even make this shit up, [this](http://i.imgur.com/pwMeGgt.png) was the captcha tinypic gave me when I uploaded that image. What.


	5. Oak to Grant You Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [standard apology for being a slow updater]

Thor returned from their daily meet in an odd mood. It had felt right and familiar, to finally speak to his comrades once more, heavy though their discussion had been. It would likely be a long time before darkness did not hover behind all of them, and they had to move forward in order to reach that time. Today had been a small step, but a step nonetheless.

He stepped into his room, pausing to rest a hand on Mjolnir, feeling her sing beneath his palm. Perhaps soon he would feel worthy to use her again, but not just yet. He let his hand fall back to his side and moved past her.

The room was small, an entire suite within its walls. Thor had, among his self-imposed punishments, denied himself much of the luxury to which he was accustomed. The furnishings were the plain things that had been there upon his arrival: a bed barely large enough to contain his bulk, a desk and matching chair, a low table in the center of the thin carpeting. Of his belongings, he had allowed himself only Mjolnir, his clothing, and some few books he especially enjoyed. The books were stacked neatly on the low table, within easy reach of the bed, and next to them rested the bowl of delicate flowers and their cryptic card. He should ask if perhaps there was a way to find out what flower they were, and if they contained any unique properties aside from their pleasing fragrance.

Upon the desk, in the center of its surface, sat a large single-handled jug, glazed black at the bottom lightening to silver at the mouth. Thor might have wondered where it had come from, had not it contained a dozen or so bloomed roses, creamy white against the deep green of their leaves, with again a white card leaned against the jug.

 _Purity is a rare breed these days,_ the elegant gold script on the card proclaimed.

Thor had little skill in puzzles of words – that had ever been Loki's strength – and so he gave no thought to the deeper meaning that was likely there. He only set the card aside, lifting the jug carefully (noting as he did that there roses bore no visible thorns) and moved it to the low table, collecting a novel to pass the time.

And for the first time in what seemed a very long time, as he settled in his chair to read, Thor found himself looking forward to when he would see his comrades again at dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce liked to take one of his lab sessions between the morning group and his private meeting with Agent Jandel. It helped him to maintain the outward calm Tony had always insisted was only possible through bongo drums and weed. He was fairly certain his own emotional state wasn't all that important right now, what with the other guy walling himself away from Bruce, but it was a good idea to keep in practice. Just in case.

Today's session had been spent in unusual and delicate work, accompanied by a rotund botanist almost old enough to have been around for SHIELD's founding. The man had helped Bruce through the exacting process of preserving Tony's dahlia, and agreed to lend a hand if the others wanted their own flowers preserved, too.

The dahlia was now destined for a long life in a glass display case out of direct sunlight and away from potentially explosive experiments, and Bruce was heading back to his cell. He could have spent more time in the lab, but preserving that flower had been far more draining than he'd expected, and he could do with a nap.

The guard let him into his cell with a polite nod, closing and locking the door behind him and leaving him alone.

His room was not quite how he'd left it. His cot was still neatly made. His desk was bare except for the folder of worksheets to one side, waiting to be done. His chair was pushed in neatly.

His meditation rug was not rolled up under the cot.

The rug was laid flat in the center of the floor, and on top of it was a neat ring of delicate little flowers, light purple fading to near white above their golden-brown centers. The ring was a foot or so in diameter, and in its center was another white card with a message in green. He squatted, careful not to disturb the flowers, and picked up the card.

 _You don't abandon things,_ it read, _even when they abandon you._

He studied the card for a long moment, then stood and set it on his desk. He carefully gathered the flowers, recreating the circle around the card. Once his rug was clear, he toed off his shoes and dropped into a lotus position, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, and exhaling slowly. He had time to ponder Tony's question before his private session, and plenty of time to do his homework afterward.

 

* * *

 

Tony spent the rest of the afternoon in the safest, most comfortable place on the planet: on top of Rhodey.

Okay, so maybe his bed would have been more comfortable from a strictly physical standpoint, but emotionally there was nothing that could come close to the comfort using Rhodey as a giant self-heating teddy bear gave him.

Now that he was no longer freaking the fuck out and trying not to show it, there was also the added bonus of being able to see Happy for Happy instead of as a threat. Happy was basically a big puppy, one of those dopey breeds that never really grew into its paws, loved you unconditionally, and would rip somebody's kneecap off if they spoke to you in the wrong tone. He was also a surprisingly good cook, and Rhodey had been making sure the penthouse kitchen was well-stocked, so he had plenty to work with.

Between Rhodey and being fed, it didn't take more than a couple of hours for Tony to calm down enough that he could, if he wanted, head down to his workshop or back to SI to finish up there for the day. If he wanted.

But he didn't want, and Rhodey didn't mind. He was perfectly free to stay right where he was with his honey bear and his guard dog, and he didn't have to feel guilty about it at all.

Tony was bigger than he used to be, but you'd never know it from the way he was able to sprawl against Rhodey, fitting against his side and chest like he always had. It still felt like home. Warmer and safer than any place had been since Jarvis passed away. Even with Pepper, before That Night, some small part of him had always been wary, unable to completely relax, having to keep up just that little bit of guard. It made him feel a bit ashamed, to be honest, that he was such a paranoid son of a bitch he couldn't even fully trust his own girlfriend.

“Stop thinking like that,” Rhodey said out of nowhere.

“Are you reading my mind?” Tony asked, craning his neck to frown up at him.

“I know you,” Rhodey said. “Stop thinking bad shit about yourself, or I'll tell Happy you said his cupcakes were dry.”

Tony huffed a small laugh, settling back down. Thinking of Pepper... “Jarvis, what time is it?”

“Ten minutes until five o'clock, sir.”

“I guess I should call Pepper soon. She's not busy, is she?”

“She is currently looking at pictures of cats,” Jarvis reported. “Unless she is devising a rather unconventional method of world domination, I would go so far as to suggest she may be bored.”

Tony nodded, dragging himself off Rhodey reluctantly, stretching. “Can't have that,” he joked, giving Rhodey a weak smile. “Be back in a bit.”

 

* * *

 

He headed straight to his lab, where he always had his calls with Pepper. He felt calmer there, more able to deal. It was still his safe haven. None of the team had gotten to him there.

Jarvis started the call once he was settled at one of the workbenches, screen at the ready. Pepper was smiling, bright and just a little bit strained. “Tony,”

“Hey,” he said. “I guess Rhodey called you?”

She nodded. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? How are you feeling now?”

“Better. I'm doing better. I got a bit blindsided, but I don't think anybody but Happy noticed, so the stocks should-”

“Tony,” she interrupted gently, “Fuck the stocks. Are _you_ okay?”

Tony huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Such language, Miss Potts.”

“You can keep deflecting, but I'm not going to stop asking.”

“I'm fine. I got Honey Bear cuddles, and Happy makes a mean spread of comfort food. I didn't even know he could cook.”

“Apparently chef was going to be his fall-back career after boxing.”

Pepper was smiling again, genuinely, and Tony smiled back. She let him steer the conversation toward trivial stuff, gossip about their very small circle of friends and shop talk about SI and the projects he was working on. She didn't mention his setback again, or ask how he was. Sometimes she'd insist on talking about heavy things, but sometimes they just... talked. Apparently this was one of those times. It felt almost like Before.

Almost.

“I miss you,” Tony confessed suddenly, looking down at his hands. “Our bed doesn't smell like you anymore, and I miss that, the way everything used to smell just a little like you all the time, and I know it's a stupid thing to miss, but I do.”

“I miss you, too,” Pepper said. “I worry every day, whether you're eating and sleeping enough, if Rhodey knows how to hug you without breaking your concentration, if you feel safe. If you're happy.”

She didn't say _without me_. She probably didn't even think it. At least Tony hoped she didn't. But he couldn't help hearing it, anyway. He'd kicked her out of her home, pushed her to the other side of the country, and told her not to come back until he said she could, which was just objectively a shitty thing to do.

“I'm sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she insisted. “I mean it. Don't ever apologize for being human.”

“Sorry,” he said, smiling slightly. She made an fond noise of exasperation, but let it go.

“I have a meeting to get to. If you need anything at all, call me.”

“Got it, Boss. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Tony. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed. They shared one last smile before the screen went dark, and Tony slumped down to rest his head on the workbench with a sigh.

“Sir?” Jarvis asked. “Are you alright?”

“As I ever am,” Tony assured him with a rueful laugh that trailed into a yawn. Panic attacks were exhausting. “I think I'm gonna take a nap.”

“Shall I send Colonel Rhodes down?”

“No, I think I'm gonna try this alone.”

“Very well, sir. When shall I wake you?”

Tony considered it a moment, walking over and flopping down on the couch. “Give me an hour. And send Rhodey down if it looks like I'm having a nightmare.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said, while Dummy and You did a pretty fair job of pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and over him and Butterfingers made disapproving beeps over their methods. “Sleep well.”

Tony nodded, curling up under the blanket and closing his eyes. It was okay to take baby steps. It was okay to need help. It was okay to not be okay.

It took almost half an hour, but he eventually relaxed enough to drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Jandel sent Natasha back to her room exhausted. Today's private sessions with the Avengers had been promising, but progress in cases like these left all parties involved drained to the dregs, and that included Jandel. He closed his office door and dropped into his desk chair, groaning. He really didn't feel up to dragging himself to the mess for dinner tonight...

Someone knocked on the door, and only years of schooling kept him from banging his head repeatedly against his desk in reply.

“ _Entrez_ _!_ ”he called. He didn't care if it was Director Fury himself, he was _not_ getting out of this chair.

Of course, because the cosmos _did_ have a fairly keen sense of humor, Director Fury himself opened the door and stepped inside.

“ _Bonsoir_ , Director,” Jandel said wearily. “What can I do for you?”

Fury raised one eyebrow. He could say a great deal with that eyebrow, Jandel had discovered over the years. Right now, it seemed to be raised in amusement as Fury stepped up to the desk and set down a plastic bag, followed by a covered Styrofoam cup, both of which bore the logo of the absolute best Mexican restaurant in New York City.

“Director Fury, you are a saint,” Jandel informed him, grabbing for the bag.

Fury smiled, very slightly. “Don't spread it around.”

Jandel waved toward the chair Natasha had just recently vacated, then spent the next five minutes focused solely on eating. Fury wouldn't have brought him food without expecting him to eat immediately, after all, and it had been a very long time since lunch.

Once he no longer felt in danger of wasting away, Jandel slowed down, looking up at Fury. “I doubt you came to New York simply to feed me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I've been keeping up with your reports,”

“I would be disappointed if you hadn't.”

“Are you going to dance circles around me all night, Agent?”

“My God, no,” Jandel said, smiling. “You'll be lucky if I make it to ten minutes from now without falling asleep on my desk. Please just ask your questions directly.”

“How are they doing?”

“Still being harsher with themselves than we could ever be,” Jandel said, stifling a yawn. “Progressing normally for the most part, though I'm becoming somewhat worried over their interpersonal roadblocks.”

Fury nodded, as if that didn't surprise him. It shouldn't, either, considering Jandel had noted just that in his last report. “Any suggestions?”

“A handful. Firstly, I'd like to start shortening the individual sessions to 40 minutes, and shifting them all forward accordingly. Natasha needs to start taking meals with the rest of the team, but I will not send her straight from a session into a public setting. That would be cruel.”

Fury grunted in a way Jandel had learned meant he approved. “And?”

“And I'd like to move the Avengers to one of the group blocks. They need to rebuild their relationships, and it's becoming apparent they aren't going to do that unless we push them.”

“How soon?”

“Within a week, if possible.”

“I'll have 'em moved in the morning,” Fury promised. “Finish your tacos and go to bed, Agent. Sleep in. You need it.”

Jandel smiled, saluting Fury with his coke. “No more than you,” he said.

“Start psycho-analyzing me, and you're fired.”

Jandel smiled wider. “ _Dormez_ _bien_.”

Fury scowled a moment before sweeping out of Jandel's office, leaving him to eat the last of his dinner in peace. Then, though he still had work that could stand to be done, he was going to heed Fury's advice and sleep while he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor's flowers this time are [white roses](http://i.imgur.com/AwJIKel.jpg), which stand for purity.  
> Bruce's flowers are [Peruvian Heliotrope](http://i.imgur.com/qPGvDmY.jpg), which stand for devotion.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved and appreciated and actively wanted. Seriously, I love comments almost as much as Jarvis loves Tony.
> 
> Also: [tumblr](http://singingwithoutwords.tumblr.com/).


End file.
